


How We Cope

by lovewillcomeandfindme



Category: Bandstand - Oberacker/Oberacker & Taylor
Genre: Canon Compliant, Closeted Character, Coping, Drug Abuse, Grief/Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23585959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovewillcomeandfindme/pseuds/lovewillcomeandfindme
Summary: Everyone copes differently, even if it isn't always healthy.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	How We Cope

Donny needed everything to be loud. It needed to be loud enough to drown out the screams. He couldn't tell if they were his own or someone else's at this point but they were always there. Sometimes they were all he could hear, and sometimes he couldn't even hear them over the explosions going off, again and again and again, until he couldn't even cry anymore, and he just had to lay there all night, desperate for anything to stop the bombs going off in his head. 

Donny loved to play in the big clubs, the ones with bright lights and lots of people, all of them watching him, waiting for more. None of them knew him. None of them knew what he did, or who he had hurt, or who he loved- All they knew was that he could play. He could play, and he could give them a tune like no one else could. They needed him in that moment like he needed them.

He needed play for them. He had to make someone happy, and he needed them to drown out the voices in his head. He needed them to make him forget he killed the first person to ever love him. He needed to see the keys and not a charred body of his closest friend, feel the keys under his hands instead of the mud in the trenches. 

He needed to be loud enough to forget.  
Jimmy loved Aarons lips. He loved the way they felt against his own, and he loved the way they closed around a cigarette, still quirked in that stupidly attractive half smile of his. He could remember the way he used to purse them shut whenever he was focused, and then the way he would pout at Jimmy when he teased him. He could remember the way they felt against his neck, and how they would form the words “I love you”, and if he really thought about it he could hear it too.

Jimmy hated the cold. The cold reminded him of cold waves, and of a burning heat against his face as he desperately fought to stay afloat. He could remember the way that the water tasted, salty and metallic, coating his mouth with a taste that he still couldn’t get rid of to this day. The water was biting, and the ship was sinking before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

Jimmy had a love hate relationship with the color blue. Blue was his favorite color as a child, and it stayed as he entered adult life. Blue was the color of Aaron’s eyes, the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, and every time he saw the color blue, he could see the way those eyes crinkled with laughter and narrowed when he got an idea, and he saw them clouded with lust and clear with love, and he missed them so much. 

By the time he found Aaron in the water, his lips were blue. He was half burned, his arms bright red but so, so cold. He was long dead, but Jimmy couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t stand to look at the man he loved and see him dead. He was asleep. He was cold, and Jimmy hated the cold, but when he reached out to touch him, he didn’t wake up. When he kissed him, he didn’t wake up. 

Aaron stayed asleep, his blue eyes staring at the sky.

Spitting blood out of his mouth, Davy wiped his brow. He pocketed a few bills, before nursing his hand, staring down at his knuckles. He felt calmer than he had in weeks, but it was building again. Flexing his hand made him wince, and he wished it didn’t make him feel better. There is nothing that he should like about this, about back alley fights to pay rent, but hell if it doesn't make him feel better. He can drink til he passes out, shower with water hot enough to leave burns, and yet none of it feels quite like this. 

It’s like a drug, and he knows he’s addicted. He hasn’t gotten high since before the war, but the fights feel the way he remembers it. He doesn't ever feel the pain until after, but he’s still laying in the afterglow, his mind hazy as he walks, not really paying any attention to where he’s going, just letting his feet guide him. 

His hand is bleeding, probably more than it usually does, but he doesn't care right now. He won’t care until the morning, when its scabbed over and he cant feel his fingers, but that is for then and not now. 

Now? Now he’s riding his high.

Life was a bitch. Nick would tell anyone that, any time of day, any day of the week. People would never understand just what kind of a bitch it could be. He did. Maybe the only person who could kind of understand was that douchebag, Davy. He wasn’t such a bad guy, but he didn’t trust that. He was too lively for a man who had seen what he had. Too nice. 

Nick wasn’t nice. He knew that. But he wasn’t going to change. He had learned his lesson years ago about being nice. Being nice got you left behind. Being nice got you left for dead.

Hell, being nice his whole life landed him in hell. He got starved, he got beat, people did unspeakable things to him, and he’s supposed to be okay?

He wasn’t. Not that he would ever tell anyone that. If anyone asked, he was fine. He was having an off day, but he’d be fine. He’d be even better if they left him alone. No, he didn’t want to talk about it, and by God no- He won’t tell you what made him like this.

Yeah, life was a bitch, but fuck it. So was Nick.

Wayne should have sold his gun. He should have gotten rid of it when he got home,because he knew his kids might find it one day, and the thought terrified him. He didn’t. He kept the gun, because he couldn’t lose it. It was his lifeline. It had saved him when he could barely save himself. Sometimes he thought it could still save him, save him from himself. He knew these thoughts weren’t normal. He knew that he shouldn’t just hold it to his head and think about the what if’s. 

What if Anna still loved him? What if he could hold his children without his skin feeling like its crawling off? What if he knew how to talk to the other guys? What if he could tell people that he thought like this? What if he could tell the guys how much this meant to him? What if he pulled the trigger?

Some nights he nearly does. He pulls the safety, and lets his finger rest on the trigger, just barely touching it. He can hear the gunshots, he can see his friends, his brothers falling and dying next to him, and he knows he should be with them. 

Some nights he nearly pulls the trigger. He always regrets not doing it.

Johnny isn’t stupid, but sometimes he feels like it. He hates hearing the way people talk about him when they think he can’t hear. He remembers some things. He remembers the accident, and he knows he’s lucky to not remember the worst of it. He doesn’t remember the fire, but he can feel it. He feels the burns every second of every day, running down his back and his legs. He can feel nearly everything they did to him too.

The pills make him numb. They remove the constant ache from his back and his ribs, make his legs feel stronger, keep the limp away but they aren’t perfect. He learned early on if he took one too many he would fall apart. He’s done that enough times. 

He hasn’t done it at a gig yet, but he hopes he won’t do it to the guys. He doesn't want them to see him like that, so high he can’t move, but some days thats all he can do. Some days one pill just isn’t enough. 

One pill, one drink. One hour of pain, one more pill, one more drink. Another hour, another two drinks. Another pill. Another pill. It won’t go away. He can’t feel his lips, and he’s nauseous, but he can still feel the fire creeping up his back, and his head feels like its going to explode.

Maybe just one more pill…

Julia was lost. She missed her normal life, and she missed the plans she had made. She mourned for Michael every day, and she mourned for the life they had made. Julie missed waking up curled in her husbands arms, and she wished she could have just one more Sunday morning. She would wrap her arms around his neck and never let him go. Run her hands through his hair, and tell him she loves him over and over again, and tease him about his morning breath, but kiss him anyway. 

She had to mourn the family they had wanted. The little girl, who would have his eyes, and her hair and would help her father get out of church to go play outside because she wouldn't be able to sit still. The beautiful house they had been looking at, just two streets away from her mother, so they would be able to have family dinners once a week. The cat she had always dreamed of getting, a little calico who would curl up on her lap and purr while she wrote. 

Now she was lost, wandering aimlessly in life, working just to put food on the table, and keeping sane by going to church and helping where she could, the children giving her a small purpose but… It was a cruel tease from fate. 

She would never get to teach her children how to sing, and she would never have Michael to wake up to again.


End file.
